whoa---

--I am blogging.

I have not blogged in a while. I have journaled and rambled and spoken. But not anything like this, crafting a paragraph so people I do not know (or do know) can read.
I feel like the last blog post was a universe away. In some ways it was a universe away. It is a new semester. I know different people, am known by different people. I am different. The way I see is constantly (by God's grace, literally) being seared.
But in some ways it is not. This is stil God's universe.
Actually, I just crept back at the lat post I made. This sentence was in bold:

I keep slipping back into grace, after slipping out of it.
Why do I do that? I want to carry this burden of award. I there is one thing I can testfy to, it is that it is better to be loved rather than 'appreciated.' And another thing: no responsibility means no repentance, and repentance gives us hands to accept grace.

Blesed is he whoe transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whos sin the LORD does not count against him and in whose spirit there is no deceit. Psalm 32:1, 2

FORGIVEN.

Main Entry:for*give
Pronunciation:f*r-*giv
Function:verb
Inflected Form:-gave \-*g*v\ ; -giv*en \-*gi-v*n\ ; -giv*ing

1 : to give up resentment of
2 : PARDON : ABSOLVE
3 : to grant relief from payment of
–for*giv*able adjective
–for*give*ness noun

Give up, pardon, absolve, dissolve, relieve.

I am reading a short essay called "A Short History of Happiness." I want to blog about it, sometime.

That is all I have. God is so good. Read Psalm 32 all the way through.

Psalm 32
Of David. A maskil.[a]
1 Blessed is the one
whose transgressions are forgiven,
whose sins are covered.
2 Blessed is the one
whose sin the LORD does not count against them
and in whose spirit is no deceit.

3 When I kept silent,
my bones wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
4 For day and night
your hand was heavy on me;
my strength was sapped
as in the heat of summer.[b]

5 Then I acknowledged my sin to you
and did not cover up my iniquity.
I said, “I will confess
my transgressions to the LORD.”
And you forgave
the guilt of my sin.

6 Therefore let all the faithful pray to you
while you may be found;
surely the rising of the mighty waters
will not reach them.
7 You are my hiding place;
you will protect me from trouble
and surround me with songs of deliverance.

8 I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will counsel you with my loving eye on you.
9 Do not be like the horse or the mule,
which have no understanding
but must be controlled by bit and bridle
or they will not come to you.
10 Many are the woes of the wicked,
but the LORD’s unfailing love
surrounds the one who trusts in him.

11 Rejoice in the LORD and be glad, you righteous;
sing, all you who are upright in heart!

Another thing I can testify to: This is battle. This life will always be a battle, so we need to fight. But we are victors.

"Moses answered the people, 'Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the LORD will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still.'"

Before God I lay down my defenses. He will deliver me.
Deliverance, relief, salvation, grace, grace, grace.

Thank you, my God.


Where my eyes open.

Silent seas curving purple
and shadow of Your hand.

I see finally

silver between breaks
of Your skin. Your breath minting words
into forms. Your breath against

the space between my rib cage and where
my heart beats
newly warm.

Born in Your breath.

Can it be all I hear?
Risen

Your fingers scent---

God, today I heard the sun rise

and all I could know was,
“Your love for me

is more wonderful.”
Than the love of men. And the love

of my lovers that do not love.

Claim me in that silence,
a world, enamored,

creation in transport held by

Your breath.

Can it be all I hear?
Risen,
Your breath
my song,

Your hand
the only place I know.

Unknown in every eye but Your own.

God is so good.

Psalm 73

When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, was sensles and igorant; I was a brute beast before you. Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you.

Letters

I remember giving letters to that dead feeling.
What longer made sense? Because all the fancy names
I thought to give parted to find
nothing behind the curtain.

If there were a box, if that box was me,
empty it. I want to empty it,
the contents spilling like fire crackers into a sea.

No one needs to know me--must I be known?
More else, sometimes I think I don’t
want to be known; or I want to be known
for not being known.

Once there was a birth, and that was myself.
The product of a moment of intense desire, like everyone else.
But with a reason. Right, isn’t that why am I here, Lord?
I want to cut off those entangling cords that tell me,
“Better find a tight space to fit in.”
Can you give me,--to be unknown
in every eye but Your own--that intense desire?
Can I belong in You?

If there is a box, I would empty it out.
I would write prayers and secrets, scratch a paper
with my hurts and then seal the box.

But then? I don’t know. I don’t think
I would want it to sink into the sea.
Would it sink, even?

Or would it fly across the water, toward the sun,
because where do those prayers go?

What would it look like, those tight pages of

jealousy and insecurity,
frustration, hater,
stomping on people,
disguising sin.

Rage.
To look at You silently, in the midst of that rage---when all I want to know
was, ‘Is that You?’ I don’t want it if it was not. Are You mad, what? Do You care
if I cry and shrink off when we dance? Or am I just made at You?

Where would they land?
Maybe it is a gift I need to give.

It slips across my fingers, that huge box I carry around my arms,
tops across someone’s feet, and they stare at it
with the falling gaze of the wind, like a hunger.
It gets kicked until it disappears.

God, you are not the box.
All the boxes I have collected, all the boxes I have stored,
all of them cramped in tight spaces;
I release them to You.

I can give You nothing else.

have you ever thought of how often we trample each other?

And what do I mean by that? Do you remember last year, Christmas time, when a human stampede on black friday literally killed someone in a Wal-mart? That's what I mean, but I don't mean that every so often I can look back to my tracks and see a physically mutilated body. No. What I mean is that; do I care about people? And I don't mean soft care, or surface care, or just care what they think about me. If they think I care for them. I mean; do I CARE? Do you know what the Thesaurus says about caring?

CARING:
see SORROW

Related words:
strain, stress, tension. a burdened of disquieted state of mind.
anxiety, concern, concernment, disquiet, disquietude, unease, uneaseiness, worry.

Now, get these contrasted words:

CONTRASTED: calm, ease, comfort


Matthew 9:35-38
Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field."

Luke 19:41-45
As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said, "If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes. The days will come upon you when your enemies will build an embankment against you and encircle you and hem you in on every side. They will dash you to the ground, you and the children within your walls. They will not leave one stone on another, because you did not recognize the time of God's coming to you."


Was Jesus ever compelled by...obligation? What? How could that even be? Jesus was broken, even literally, for us.

Why do I let myself be controlled by legalistic obligation?
When will I allow God to break me so much that I throw away my excuses and let compassion drive me, the way Jesus was driven?

I need to get tired and sick of my 'relgion game', of putting on a show and really get honest with people. I need to throw away any act I could shove down people's throats, and really ask, WHO is worth it? If God is real, then what does HE have to say? Who is He?
Do I see how God sees these people? Does my heart break with other people's hurts? Do I CARE? Am I so self-absorbed that I won't even let God's light shine and reveal what goes on in my mind?

Why do I not see apathy for what it is; literally stomping all over people, when will I HATE apathy towards God and people so much I can only cry out to God to change my heart and mind and eyes?



BREAK MY HEART FOR WHAT BREAKS YOURS. (Brooke Fraser)

Give me Your eyes to see everything I've been missing,
give me Your love for humanity,
give me Your eyes so I can see...
I've been here a thousand times...
I swear I never thought that I was wrong,
I want a second glance, give me a second chance,
to see the way You've seen the people all along.

TO SEE THE WAY YOU'VE SEEN THE PEOPLE ALL ALONG.
(Brandon Heath)


Apathetic: how do I see you?
What does it take this time?
Sitting, knees against
a hard wood table, foot slapped against
rough chair fabric.

Sometimes the width of empty rooms
the mass of silence between voices,
and sometimes the cup of my hand,
brings me
to this time,
look around, like scales falling from

my eyes.
Sometimes it is the pool in the cup of my hand.

What does it take this time?
Empty eyes.
The crumbling inside my rib cage---

Maybe I, weak-eyed,
saw weakness, a weakness I could never know.
Maybe I need to protect you
or desire to protect you, a small diamond
I must continually swallow.
because I know I can’t
be the constant. I can’t
anchor my soul, can’t anchor your soul,
cannot wrap you in a grip, pull your sleeves up,

So scars like embroidery---

What did it take?

Maybe if I saw you
from a bridge, a tall tower,
curly tree branches, hanging
on the very edge, maybe if God
will bash my silly wall encasing,
lift me from that strained
position, chained to a train track,
if He could scoop me in His own hand,

and I could be enamored by His view.
Nothing is hideous
there, but what I see

bursts me open, metamorphic,

like a thousand pieces of glass, blood
like tears, and what I see, the need
I see, the hearts like blue leaves in winter,
enslaved bodies, words like stones
huddled around, feeling each other, being scratched unaware,

blue faces and pretty jars slashed apart,

dark screaming
louder.

What did it take this time?
All the scenes I see are in black and white.
The sound drips away like sweat.

Only His light, a thousand golden showers.
Only His blood, red shooting across the sky.
Only His love, a purple robe.

Bursts you open, metamorphic.






Nightlights
(Jimmy Needham)

Be Thou exalted over my reputation, 'Cause applause is a poor form of soul medication.

And I've tried it for years, but my symptoms remain:
Still fretting the day that they'll misplace my name,
Still selling my soul for American fame.
Treating the promotion of Jesus like a well oiled machine,
Advancing His kingdom just to snag some acclaim. Now, I'm both comforted and haunted that it isn't just me though.
I see a nation of people needing to feed their own egos,
Parading status like steeples.
Do we not know it's evil to love ourselves more than both God and His people?
But see, here's where you turn this poem on it's head,
'Cause the greatest among us came as servant instead,
And You humbled Yourself to the point of Your death.
Apparently love for the Father's glory runs red.

So friends, will we point to the Son till our own flames grow dim?
Will our bright lights become merely night-lights near Him?
Words echo once, let them echo again:

Be Thou exalted over my reputation.

What prostrate means.

I read a lot of verses in the Bible that talk about lying prostrate. I must be honest and tell you that I didn't know what it meant until I finally looked it up two summers ago.

pros·trate (prstrt)
tr.v. pros·trat·ed, pros·trat·ing, pros·trates
1. To put or throw flat with the face down, as in submission or adoration: "He did not simply sit and meditate, he also knelt down, sometimes even prostrated himself" (Iris Murdoch).
2. To cause to lie flat: The wind prostrated the young trees.
3. To reduce to extreme weakness or incapacitation; overcome: an illness that prostrated an entire family; a nation that was prostrated by years of civil war.
adj.
1. Lying face down, as in submission or adoration.
2. Lying flat or at full length.
3. Reduced to extreme weakness or incapacitation; overcome.
4. Botany Growing flat along the ground.

Anyways, what I got out of the big brown dictionary I used were these synonyms: to overcome, to wear down, to submit, to arrest.

I really wish I remembered the specific verses I read that prompted me to write these poems. But I don't. I'll go back and post verses on lying prostrate. For now, here are the poems:

"To Fall Prostrate"

If I am an empty cup. If I am
brittle and chipping away. If I am
lamenated by anything I touch,

I wish for You to break me.

I wish to fall, agast
with a sudden blow, or
silently cracked, by piece.

I wish for You to create me again, and fill me.

(That one was written in 2008. I specicially remember why I wrote this poem; it was after a Bible Study at a summer camp---The Masterworks Festival, aka the most awesome place ever. The Bible Study leader mentioned of those two different ways God teacheS us things in our life. One is by dramatic changes. Sometimes it's black one second and white the next. Othertimes it divulges itself in many shade of gray, and you don't realize until later you're a different color.)

"What prostrate means"

Sometimes it is
wearing out. My hands, my joints
my arms, my throat,
every point, like stars
Blinking away into space, collapsing,

and I crumble,
mere wear,
and I tear up. You win
the war, and I finally am
captivated,
free.

Sometimes
it is overcome,

I throw off the towel again.

God,
and here,
like a big bright
Light. I take You, the edge
of my feet singing silently,
every muscle vibrating.
You are the
Giver. And throwing

off the towel, no longer
afraid of the Water,
no longer ashamed of the plummet,
of sinking into
Your praise. Instead,

praise rise glowing, flushed.

(This one I wrote a few days ago.)

things, a bunch of things

I was thinking the other day about stories, specifically testimonies, about God and Jesus and how He's changed someone's life. I remember the first time I had to share my testimony, I mentioned to someone that I wasn't sure what exactly to include---and what to leave out. The reply was, "Put all of it!"
Perhaps it is just the geek in me that wants to say, "You cannot put all of it; storytelling in itself is limited to choices and limitations." But I must not get academic about it.
I recently discovered a quote from the singer Jason Gray, which goes as,

"I think the best thing that can happen to us is to be 'found out' for all that we are, our religious and human pretenses stripped away to reveal our sin, pettiness, and weakness. Then we can devote our energies to better endeavors than the constant masquerade of sufficiency. The added benefit is that people are able to see how God's grace works in a real person's life. When we come clean about our brokenness, Christ becomes the star of our testimony and not us."

What was meant by "Put all of it!" was not to censor for the sake of protecting my name or saving me embarrassment, or making me look like the hero. I really really love the Gray quote. Life really is all about Jesus.

When you grow up in a Christian household, when you've gone to church longer than you've gone to school, when you've learned the songs to memorize the books of the Bible before you knew all of your multiplication tables, if you got saved when you were young and not even aware of your own vulnerability to sin, only faintly understanding you are sinful---sharing your testimony can get pretty tricky. Not because it happened so very long ago. But because, at least I find this in my own life, I have to, in the present, remind and be reminded of the gospel and what that really means for my own life now. My testimony is continually happening.
When I wrote up my testimony for the first time, it was six pages long, single-spaced. I got saved in the second sentence.

I was reminded only recently of my way back past. I got saved when I was in 6th grade. I don't remember the date, but I remember the night and what led up to it. Before that, I had "said the prayer" and "walked down the aisle" at kid's church. I think I was six. I remember in sixth grade I didn't want to, didn't really know how, to tell someone my testimony because I thought I was quite old for just getting saved.

And I remember poems. I wrote them mostly when I was mad. I was always mad. But I also wrote them to somehow dissolve my anger. I feel like God use poetry to teach me things in a way that made sense to me.

This post is kind of all over the place. I will end with one of the earliest poems I wrote.

(note: I was really into the sonnet form then. This particular poem is not set in a consistent meter. Obviously it is a metaphor, and I'm sure you have heard this analogy before.)

Sonnet No. 3

Like a healthy ray of light You came in.
But You didn't just shine, no, You contended
to make the flowers grow, intended
to heal them when they were so thin.

I loved the sun. I loved to bask
in Strcngth exceeding the strongest strong.
But I thought You were wrong
when You made it rain. I rang my voice to ask

of Your move to send forth thunder, to
damp the brightest morning with the sending of the storm,
to drown the living, and to cool the friendly warm.
I cried out to sue, but God already knew,

"This is your trying, my child, your gain
for flowers can't grow without rain."

Shtuff.

Okay. So I've been thinking about actions, motivation, (strange big word here), yadayada---basically, why do I think the way I think, do the things I do, want the things I want, say the things I say. I think I have been learning, this year, to distinguish more feelings and values and the will and commitment. What is going to keep me from wasting my life? Not to become pessimistic. Just realistic. And perhaps idealistic. Too idealistic. In a perfect world I would be---perfect. Baha. No, at least I would accomplish something that would last, do something that would not die, not just to create my legacy. Oh, God. I really need to learn to throw my own vision for my life out the door. My own dreams. "God shatters our dreams so we can find Him. Then He replaces our shattered dreams with His dreams for us," said Lutzer. So much of me, I know, needs to change, but I'm scared. Really scared. It's like ripping out my eyes. It is like standing naked in the middle of the mall. Ann Proulx, "We think of change as benign, but it chews some people up and spits them out." It's uncomfortable, and I love comfort. I sometimes cling to comfort.

John Berryman's Dream Song One

Huffy Henry hid the day,
unappeasable Henry sulked.
I see his point---a trying to put things over.
It was the thought that they thought
they could do it made Henry wicked & away.
But he should have come out and talked.

All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry's side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don't see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.

What he has now to say is a long
wonder the world can bear & be.
Once in a sycamore I was glad
all at the top, and I sang.
Hard on the land wears the strong sea
and empty grows every bed.

I am taking too long to think of a title for this, so...

"As Freezing Persons Recollect the Snow."

At the pointed setting sun I talk with you,
God, when my foot edges
the corner of a cold walkway, marking
the end of some season; now,
even, as my own mind, silky, grasps
of clear branches, tearing outward skies,
your arm swiftness,
swarms in these things,
like shouts
in this open, brightly.
Everything smells beautiful
at the point I will to turn, God,
myself laid into the bleeding sun, trembling
in it
delightedly.

For the rest of my life I believe you are good.

Against that upholstered, man-made
bench seat, hopping across
roads, face vibrating,
I knew. How near I actually
am to meeting skidded crusted cement.
How if release happens, it could only be a right.
Thin fabrications only hold my face
from being scraped.
Now even the floor is a blessing.

~~
Yes, of course it is another poem. (:

As freezing persons recollect the snow.

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."
-C.S. Lewis, "The Problem of Pain"

"After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go."

Emily Dickinson

...

Vincent van Gogh, 'Sower with Setting Sun'
http://www.cord.edu/faculty/andersod/vangogh_sower_millet.jpg

first poem I have written this year

"He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, whic neither you nor your father had known, to show you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of God."
Deuteronomy 8:3

"Open your wouth wide and I will fill it."
Psalm 81:10b

I. Preamble

How certain I know You've been here.
Tired steamlight of this document trembles.
I wonder how anything like dark
typed words would make my world
polished again. If they themselves
would mend up rips like fingers flying
across the tear, wearing off bumps and shattering
thoughts or differences into
nowhere. Like broken glass.

Again has grown into a stranger. The past,
a trembling figure skimming across
a road or farmland, always crunching
his oblong bronze apple.
I even hate the word 'familiar.'

This moment perhaps is really
rage. A cowering, a
betrayl. To no one.
Nothing as accurate as
that. I prefer my comfort,
my underground drilling, my stuck head
as long as what I have it rammed into
remains---
and it is not like anyone is dead. Just
that all my living has been starved on
stale stiff idols, always lining up in different forms
promising things like 'success' or
a 'man', 'glorification', 'beauty.'

Yet I moan, because maybe
I wanted my idols, Father, maybe
I won't try to even understand
Your love. And I know it was You,
know it. Wilted
the cheap aim of my affection. Was it always so
empty, the target? I don't
want to think so, no.

II. Lord's Song

Open your mouth wider, my Loved.
I will break it, I will fill it.
Eat on the past and your pangs
will last, will swallow you first.
I will break it, I will fill it.
Your hunger is too large, your heart
is too hollow, your limbs collapse.
Your mind collects everything
like grime. Loved, your heart sits on traps.
I will break it, I will fill it.
You've been lunching on lies,
each feeding. Your mouth
never comes near me. Loved,
bare your widened mouth to me.
I will break it, I will fill it.
You think I cannot see your pain? Loved,
your pain is mine.
I will break it, I will fill it.
Loved, you shove me. You
are searching for another way,
you crucify me.
I will break it, I will fill it.
Rip your eyes to me.
I will break it, I will fill it.
You are mine, Loved.
Come letting go and all
your spindly pieces will unravel
Like a song, Loved.
Do not feel robbed or shamed or naked.
I cover you.
I've stripped myself already and agonized.
I will break it, I will fill it.
Carry your arms to me.
I will break it, I will fill it
Open your mouth wider, my Loved.
I will break it, I will fill it.

Psalm 126

Something I've been thinking about. I want to start an experiment, a collection of experiences and interviews and moments and create art from that. Right now it's just an idea, something that's been swimming around in my head for a while. Yes, I don't know. I want the common thread to be a moment of salvation, how the life of Jesus has affected the lives of people today, in any aspect of their lives. What it means to them. What I need is materials. People. Conversations. Authenticity.* I need volunteers, but I would like to have a goal first. Anyway. If you are actually reading this, PLEASEPLEASE comment and give advice. Or volunteer to tell me your story, anything! I do not know how this will end out. Hmm. But I am open right now, want things to be molded now.
Yup yup.


Psalm 126

A song of ascents.

1 When the LORD brought back the captives to Zion,
we were like men who dreamed.
2 Our mouths were filled with laughter,
our tongues with songs of joy.
Then it was said among the nations,
"The LORD has done great things for them."

3 The LORD has done great things for us,
and we are filled with joy.

4 Restore our fortunes, O LORD,
like streams in the Negev.

5 Those who sow in tears
will reap with songs of joy.

6 He who goes out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with him.

*Main Entry: au·then·tic
Pronunciation: \ə-ˈthen-tik, ȯ-\
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English autentik, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin authenticus, from Greek authentikos, from authentēs perpetrator, master, from aut- + -hentēs (akin to Greek anyein to accomplish, Sanskrit sanoti he gains)
Date: 14th century
1 obsolete : authoritative
2 a : worthy of acceptance or belief as conforming to or based on fact b : conforming to an original so as to reproduce essential features c : made or done the same way as an original
3 : not false or imitation : real, actual
4 a of a church mode : ranging upward from the keynote — compare plagal 1 b of a cadence : progressing from the dominant chord to the tonic — compare plagal 2
5 : true to one's own personality, spirit, or character

What we do with old journal entries

I've never kept a 'real' journal. It is too hard and personal for me.

Instead I scribble. I found this entry sometime between Dec. 3 and Dec. 31 of 2009. It is undated.

It is a poem with no title, with two words, "Live loved," written on top and a sentence above that; "Dear Father, thank you for a more abundant life. Help me to accept it." And here it is:

What I can say
about your love is that
it is strange to me. That
I cannot seem to fit it, that I don't
even try it on. What I can say is that
my own embrace refuses to collect it.
Though you give it to me. Though it falls
to me, like white giant sheets
from a widened sky.

I don't understand it. Too perfect,
covering all of me, what I know
never pleases even myself, that
entire body like a box of frustration,
bouncing and springing inside. It takes

it all.
What I can say
is that the life I'm offered sometimes sits stale. Because
I must be broken,
to come ready to be mended.

Nevertheless, your love comes over me.

my quiet time today...

...(which, to say, was not quiet at all. A CD mixed with songs by some of the artists sprinkled in my "favorite music" list.)

This year I commited to reading the Bible in a year. I have caught up thus far, but that had to include a day where I had to read three days' worth in a night. Yeah. But today was---good, interesting...

Genesis 19. Sodom and Gomorrah destroyed.

I think that this passage fascinates people. I have read (a few) different poems on this situation, most specifically, Lot's wife looking back.

So, God's angels have told Lot's family that they need to leave Sodom and Gomorrah, as God was to destroy the city for its wickedness.

"By the time Lot reached Zoar, the sun had risen over the land. Then the Lord rained down burning sulfur on Sodom and Gomorrah...But Lot's wife looked back and she became a pillar of salt." (Gen. 19:23-26, NIV)

Anna Akmatova's take (trans. Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz):

Lot's Wife

And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:
"It's not too late, you can still look back
at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."
A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.
Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.

I cannot suppose I know what is going on in Lot's wife's (could we give her a name?) desires or mindset, or anything else.

Maybe I will start out what I know to be true:

The Old Testament God is the same God of the New Testament who is the same God of right now and forever.

Yet, there is the Old Covenant and the New Covenant.

Somethings I do not know:

What I mentioned, Lot's wife, what compelled her to look back and what was that difference between her and the remander of Lot's family.

It is not a matter of whether or not I 'agree' with Akmatova's poem. Phonetically it is beautiful (though translated) but I know that, if taken to represent what was going on, very biased. Maybe I too am looking at it with bias.

But already the first two lines have painted a picture that we know not to be true. The Bible is so devestatingly honest of the weakness of man. Yes. The great men were not perfect men. They walked with God---let him guide them, did things out of faith even when they were so weak.

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Akmatova's poem isn't very overdone, but it does have the tint (I think?) of a mocking, ridculous man, overlooking his wife in the back, her eyes following "the red towers of (her) native Sodom." I don't want to propose the opposite in her.

"Looked back." I do not know what is meant completely by it, but---

Like an onion (yes) there are different layers to this. What can looking back say about her trust? Her faith (will God do what he says)? Her desire?

There is also a physical, literal act of turning back and looking. I think that it was C.S. Lewis (I am thinking in his book "The Screwtape Letters") that it is absurd to suppose that what you do in your physical life and the way you appear and act 'on the outside' has no bearing or effect on the spirtual, 'on the inside.'

"Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and in spirit." (1 Corinthians 7:34)

I know that this passage talks specifically about unmarried women, and obviously Lot's wife---wife. At the same time, there must have been a conflict of where her devotion lies.

Hm..more later (as I say). There's so much I could ponder on paper (or computer screen) about what I've read today. I will come back tonight.

{Yes, well, the New Covenant was something I did not fully grasp, didn't fully comprehend (do I think I do now? Is that even possible??) until probably this summer.} I will blog this sometime in the future.